Sunday, March 31, 2013

I was several miles from home when I realized I didn’t have
any CD’s in my car and the playlists on all the local stations were bland.
Fumbling about in my glove compartment for some music, I pulled out a defective
tire gauge, a moldy map of Tennessee roads, a wad of drive-thru napkins, and a
flashlight of which I had little confidence in its illuminability.Finally I found a few cassette tapes
from years gone by.

It was a solar soaked early April Sunday, and I had decided
to drive around to west Nashville’s expansive Percy Warner Park for some
natural perspective before church. I was pleased that the first tape case I
lifted out of the trough was a collection of Brahms classics by Leonard
Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic.As I was about to slip it into my rarely used dashboard cassette player,
I realized it wasn’t the symphony I had expected, but rather a Memorex tape
that had accidentally been placed in the Brahms case.The handwritten title was so faded I couldn’t read it.Curious, I decided to pop it in anyway
to see what surprise would greet my ears.

I am the voice inside your head

And I control you

I am the lover in your bed

And I control you

I am the sex that you provide

And I control you

I am the hate you try to hide

And I control you

This was hardly the
soothing string swells of Germanic romance era melodiousness that I thought
would augment my peaceful devotion before communal worship.Within about half a minute I realized
it was a dub of The Downward Spiral,
the epic 1994 exploration into depravity that comes from unfettered depression
(or is it the other way around?) by Nine Inch Nails.

In many ways, it is one of the saddest exposes on mankind’s
proclivity toward the dark side ever recorded.It seemed incongruous with the sun-streamed spring foliage
and dewy meadows I was passing between.

Help me, I broke apart my insides,

Help me, I’ve got no soul to sell

Help
me, the only thing that works for me,
Help me get away from myself

That
part of me isn't here anymore
It won't give up, it wants me dead
Goddamn this noise inside my head

(“The Becoming” from The Downward Spiral by Nine Inch Nails, 1994)

After a few minutes, I ejected the tape, thinking it was not
the proper accompaniment for my Sunday morning pastoral.I drove in silence for a bit, but what
I had heard reminded me of how often I don’t want to deal with the debauchery
that lurks within, and would rather mask it with sunny platitudes and
distractions.

Oh my beautiful liar

Oh my precious whore

My disease, my infection

I
am so impure

(“Reptile” from The Downward Spiral by Nine Inch Nails, 1994)

As I passed by a dead collie on the curb lying stiff in a
pool of hardened blood, I was slapped back into reality from my happy Sabbath
bliss.I decided to slide the tape
back in and turn it up even louder.

I'm losing ground

You know how this world can beat you down

I'm made of clay

I fear I'm the only one who thinks this
way

I'm
always falling down the same hill

I was weaving through the winding passes of that large,
hilly park and was reminded of how I so often try to navigate in and around the
darkness within me.Twisting to
evade contact with the brokenness is one of my favorite exercises. It has
almost become routine from muscle memory and repetition.

You extend your hand to those who suffer

To those who know what it really feels
like

To those who've had a taste

Like that means something

And oh so sick I am

And maybe I don't have a choice

And maybe that is all I have

And maybe this is a cry for help

I do not want this

I do not want this

I do not want this

I
do not want this

(“I Do Not Want This” from The Downward Spiral by Nine Inch Nails, 1994)

As I pulled into the parking lot of my church listening to
the words of the closing song, “Hurt,” it dawned on me that this was the
perfect soundtrack to prepare myself for this Easter Sunday:

What have I become?

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know

Goes away in the end

You could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of shit

Upon my liar's chair

Full of broken thoughts

I cannot repair

Beneath the stains of time

The feelings disappear

You are someone else

I am still right here

(“Hurt” from The Downward Spiral by Nine Inch Nails,
1994)

In more ways than one, those nine inch nails
were meant for me.Instead
continually driving them in to myself, Someone else took the brunt of their
sharp pain in my stead.

“Jesus
did not refuse the society of the guilty.He came to save the lost; and no person ever came to him so sure of
finding a friend as those who came conscious that they were deeply depraved and
mourning on account of their crimes.”--Albert Barnes

“There
is no pit so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.”--Corrie TenBoom

“The
most powerful sermon in the world consists of two words: Me too.” --Anne Lamott

I miss our extended chats about the rebel Jesus and our arguments
over theology.

I miss Rich’s focus on the needs of others and his recurring
challenges with absentmindedness.

I miss Rich’s wrestling with fame and his willingness to
confess openly his darkest problems.

I miss Rich’s love for the Church and his aversion towards
westernized churchianity.

I miss Rich’s servant heart and his uncompromising stance
with record label suits.

I miss Rich quoting lengthy passages of scripture and
swearing like a longshoreman.

I miss Rich’s longing for purity and his struggles with
celibacy.

I miss Rich’s attraction to “high church” and performing his
concerts bare foot and in tattered clothes.

I miss Rich’s love for Amy Grant and his disdain for the
majority of her fans.

I miss Rich’s zeal for what moved him (like seeing Dances with Wolves twenty-seven times while it was
in theaters) and his equal frustration with pop culture trends (like obsessive
dieting).

I miss Rich’s desire for meaningful friendships and his
frustrations with loneliness.

I miss Rich’s clarity that realized taking pride in poverty
was equally as wicked as taking pride in wealth.

I miss Rich’s blunt rebukes and gentle grace.

I miss Rich’s intense self-judgment and his recognition of
Christ’s deep fondness for him.

Yep…Rich was a complicated character, and a friend. When I
read Rich Mullins: An Arrow Pointing To
Heaven by James Bryan Smith I guess my emotions about Rich’s untimely death
in 1997 were still a bit raw. But many memories started flowing…

Like when I met Rich the first time at Blanton and Harrell
Management while I was a consultant on Amy Grant’s Straight Ahead Tour.Mike and Dan had recently signed Rich to their new Reunion Records
label.He was just as scruffy as
you would expect wandering the hallways, and had some definite opinions about
the $15,000 Turkish carpets on the floors.

Or the time a few years later when I was helping manage the
artist department at Compassion, and had worked hard with Rich on a printed
piece to go into his second album, Pictures
in the Sky.He was excited to
use his platform to help needy children in the developing world.Unfortunately, I had just come from the
parent record company, and the president of the label had decided not to allow
the flier to be inserted after all. We were sitting in the old Shoney’s
restaurant on Demonbreum here in Nashville when I gave him the news.In an instant, his eyes flashed, he
pounded his fist so loudly on the table that it lifted all the silverware and
tipped a glass of ice water. “That bastard!” he screamed.The bustling joint grew eerily quiet as
Rich fumed further while I tried to calm him down. With our mutual passion for
the insert, we eventually got those in charge to change their minds, and
hundreds of precious little ones ended up with better lives as a result.

Then there was the time I was on the road for Compassion
with the modern rock band The Choir.One show was in Wichita at a second floor night club.A terrible load-in for the band and
crew.Rich had become a fan of their
music, and showed up early to assist with all the equipment and stayed late do
the same.The Choir and their crew
had no idea Rich was with them, and since he was just wearing a dirty baseball
cap with his hair pulled back, they never recognized him.Later, on the bus as we were headed to
the next town I asked if they had enjoyed meeting Rich at all. “He was there?!”
they exclaimed. They were pissed that they never got to actually meet him, even
though he’d been helping all night. Rich never went out of his way to introduce
himself, even though it was his home town, and he helped fund the club where
they were playing. He was
just thrilled that they came to play and were making an impact on some kids he
knew.

Another time I wanted to introduce Rich to some of my
cohorts at Compassion.I had
warned my boss and the others that Rich could be a tad unpredictable, and that
he was never shy about expressing whatever thought process his mind was
churning.“Be prepared….and take
whatever he may spout-on about with a huge grain of salt,” I cautioned with a
wink and a smile.

We drove up to Boulder, Colorado to see him open for Amy
Grant on the Unguarded Tour. Rich was
not in a particularly good mood after his sound check in the cavernous Univ. of
Colorado Fieldhouse was completed.Once he got permission from the road manager to go off site with us to
eat, he was grousing in the van about the idiocy of Amy’s fandom that were
waiting like cattle in long lines outside the hall.Rich claimed that he would enjoy going up to those pre-teen
wanna-be’s who were all wearing their leopard skin jackets and black spandex
tights and “slap some sense into each and every one of them.” My fellow Compassionates laughed
nervously.

We drove to several area restaurants, but they were all
over-run with said fan base, and the waits were over thirty minutes to be
seated, so we kept moving.This
did not assist in changing Rich’s demeanor whatsoever.Since we had limited time before Rich
had to return backstage, we had to settle for a McDonald’s that was, once
again, full of Amy-ites.My chums
were doing their best to make small talk with Rich, but he was sullen and
somewhat withdrawn.My boss, Dave,
looked at me as if to say, “What is this guy’s deal?”

As Rich was munching on his fillet-o-fish and slurping some
orange drink, he suddenly plopped the cup on the table top and declared with
intentionality that would make Idi Amin flinch, “Ya know, I could pull out a
sub machine gun and mow down every single person in this restaurant, and not
feel one moment of remorse.”

Trying to lighten the mood I interjected, “Aw Rich, you’re
so full of it sometimes…just relax and let the kids have their naïve fun.”

He then took another bite and mumbled, “I am so very, very
serious. Get me a gun and I’ll prove it.”More uncomfortable acknowledgement and tittering ensued from our group. Thankfully, his mood began to lighten,
and he apologized for being such a jerk just as we dropped him off at the
arena.To this day, I’m amazed
that my teammates at Compassion were willing to keep moving forward with
Rich.But it was a tremendous
partnership that grew deep and more precious over the next eleven years.

The time that Phil Madeira and I put together the Mark Heard
Memorial Tribute Concert at Belmont University also sticks out in my mind.Rich had only recently come to be
familiar with Mark’s artistry, and was moved by his sudden death the previous
summer.The concert was a rousing
success as an artistic endeavor, the auditorium was packed, and we saw over
$10,000 raised for Mark’s widow and daughter.But we knew that another revenue stream that could not only
help their financial straits, but also expand Heard’s heritage would be for
artists to commit to covering Mark’s wonderful songs.Rich was the first to pop up that night and promise to do
just that.His next album featured
a powerful rendition of Mark’s “How To Grow Up Big and Strong,” and thousands
more publishing dollars went to the foundation to assist the Heard family as a
result.

I think my favorite story revolves around taking Rich on his
very first overseas trek.It was
1991, and I put together a Compassion Artist Vision Trip to Guatemala with
Rich, Rick Elias, Geoff Moore, promoter Chuck Tilley, and my manager, Devlin
Donaldson. None had ever really met each other before, and there was a great
bond that formed during that week in Central America.In fact, that is where the seeds of the Ragamuffin Band
concept were sewn, with Rich and Rick became fast friends and collaborators
from that introduction forward.

Whether we were trudging through Guatemala City’s massive
dump, or clambering up Mayan pyramids at Iximche…whether we were sitting
through an earthquake late one evening in our rattling little motel in Panajachel
or skimming across the glass surface of the gorgeous Lake Atitlan… whether we were
blowing bubbles with kindergartners in San Pedro La Laguna or Rich getting
popped with a swinging stick from an overenthusiastic little piñata basher in
Tecpan…whether we were watching naked kids splashing in a stream or he was
leading a group of native teens in singing “Awesome God,”Rich was radiant.You could just see how this was
impacting him from that point forward.

Before we had departed for the trip southward, Rich asked me
if it would be OK to bring an instrument.I assumed he meant an acoustic guitar, but he wanted to bring his large
hammer dulcimer.“Rich, that thing
is worth a couple of grand and is pretty delicate,” I reasoned. “It may not
survive the transport, and the kids at the projects are gonna want to bang on
that thing relentlessly.”

“I won’t mind…I really want to bring it, and I certainly
want the kids to try and play it,” he replied.And sure enough, when we got there, once they saw the magic
sounds Rich could bring out of it, they all wanted to try.Most were none too dignified in their
attempts to get notes out of it, but Rich was just beaming ear-to-ear with
their efforts. I’ll never forget the images of kids crawling all over Rich
trying to take turns pounding on one of his most prized possessions, and him
being absolutely thrilled with joy. Before the end of the trip, a few strings
were broken, and several chips were taken out of the fine wood finish.But Rich simply didn’t care.You could see his heart for wanting to
teach children via music come to the fore during those moments…and that’s
exactly what he committed himself to five years later when he moved to the
Navaho reservation in New Mexico.

I like this summary of Rich from An Arrow Pointing Toward Heaven:

Growing into the
person God created us to be, Rich thought, was the goal of the Christian
life—not trying to sin less, but to be God’s more.Mitch McVicker comments, “He would often say that the most
holy thing he could do was to be completely human.He was more interested in being genuine and real than being
crisp and clean on the outside.He
said, ‘God created us human, and that means struggling, falling, admitting it,
and being healed.’A part of being
holy means knowing that you are a struggling human and that you can be forgiven
and healed by God.He always
focused on the hope on the other side of sin.”

Many of us are
preparing to live rather than actually living.Meditating on this may awaken us to the fact that we have
one life to live, and the day—the moment—we are in will never be repeated.In a sense, a well-lived life is the
best way to cheat death.

“So go out and live
real good,” Rich wrote late in his life, “and I promise you you’ll be beat up
real bad.But a little while after
you’re dead, you’ll be rotted away anyway…it’s not gonna matter if you had a
few scars.It will matter if you didn’t live.”

Yeah, I still miss Rich Mullins and that thirst to drink in
all God had to offer.I still see Christ reflected in his sometimes
awkward attempts to live fully.With Jesus as my hope, may I humbly do likewise.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

As a little tyke, I would sometimes crawl in my Dad’s lap
while he would read the evening paper, or be watching television.Fascinated with the size of his hands,
I would play with the fingers and thumbs, comparing them to mine.The grooves, wrinkles, and intricate
detail of the rope-like bands of his fingerprints were so much more distinct
than the smooth skin on my little mitts.The patches of hair on his knuckles and the back of his fists were dark
compared to the peach fuzz on mine.I would press my miniature digits against his and wonder if mine would
ever be as big.

I remember his paw wrapped around mine as he stood behind
while teaching me how to grip a bat; his left on mine over the left handlebar
and his right on my lower back as he ran alongside and steadied me while
learning to balance a bicycle without training wheels; or the firm slap of his
flattened right palm he gave me ten good whacks on my behind for being
disobedient; or his hand patting gently on my the back of my neck as he leaned
over my shoulder to help me with a tough bout of algebra homework; or his arm
wrapped around my side and proudly embracing me upon my graduation from
Wheaton.

The week that the final draft of this manuscript was edited
and the graphic design for the cover was approved, Dad started slipping away.

A month earlier, he fell and broke his hip while walking to
the dining hall at his retirement home.His vertigo had become more pronounced in the past year, and he had also
fractured his forearm from a spill while taking off his shoes, and cracked his
lower right arm from a tumble while taking a shower.The resultant physical therapy from these first two setbacks
went well.But he was not
responding at all to the special hospital care he was receiving after his hip
needed rebuilding.

Dad’s appetite was receding.He was becoming borderline dehydrated.We were doing all in our power to help
him, but it was becoming obvious he was winding down. The morning his kidneys
started failing, I called Joyce who was on business in Washington DC, and she
was able to catch a flight that would arrive by late afternoon.

He was wavering in and out of consciousness, but in the
moments where Dad seemed coherent I grabbed his hand and told him Joyce was on
her way.“Can you hold on long
enough to see her?” I asked with a catch in my throat.“She really wants to say goodbye.”His eyes connected with mine, and he
nodded slightly.Then his lids
closed and never reopened as he began descending into a more comatose state.

I eased my hand into his and waited.That tactile intertwining brought back
memories of my little hand in his from five decades ago.For the first time, I realized how
similar they now looked.Sure, his
were more weathered…a few liver spots here and there, and the hairs were now
all gray…but still showing equal measures of strength, character, and
gentleness that I can only hope to emulate.

In the last few years with all the time we had sharing meals
and driving around, we had some conversations that I will always treasure.These talks were washing over me
now.I remembered sharing with him
some of my insecurities, and he confessed several episodes of his own.Like in his college days when he woke
up in a hung-over haze inside of his car in front of his apartment after
driving home drunk—wondering how the hell he had navigated traffic in that
state, and his hands trembled on the steering wheel as dawn burned his
bloodshot eyes.While he
practically crawled up the stairs in nausea, he swore that he would not end up
like his father.That moment
helped lead him to seriously searching for better reasons to live.

He told me of flipping through scriptures searching for
answers, and clasping his hands tightly together in prayer asking Christ into
his life.And recalled his sweaty
palms raking through his hair has he paced back and forth trying to make a
decision about going into the ministry several years after that.

“I can still distinctly remember holding each one of you in
my arms after you were born,” he had told me.“I was feeling so unworthy of the honor.I especially recollect with Joyce
cupping the back of her tiny, perfect little head in the meat of my hand—her
big blue eyes gazing up at me.‘Lord,’ I prayed, ‘how can I possibly provide for these three beautiful
children you have given to Marilyn and me?’My salary wasn’t even $10,000 a year back then, and there
were so many responsibilities leading a church.”

Still you argue for an option

Still you angle for your case

Like you wouldn’t know a burning bush

If it blew up in your face

Yeah, we scheme about the future

And we dream about the past

When just a simple reaching out

Might build a bridge that lasts

Mulling these images over for several hours, I was
simultaneously praying that God would allow my sister to travel without
delay.My friend Katy volunteered
to pick Joyce up at the airport and they raced through early evening rush hour
traffic.Dad’s breathing had
become very erratic, and he was wincing in agitation from the turmoil that was
wreaking mayhem intestinally.

When she arrived, Sis swept into the room and spoke in her
upbeat manner, “I’m here now, Dad.So very happy to be with you.”As she slipped her hand into his, he squeezed hard and would not let go
for the next ninety minutes.

The doctor on duty, Heather, felt that Dad was very near the
end. We wanted to make him as comfortable as possible and asked if they could
administer morphine to help with the pain that was burning his stomach.They started doses every few hours.

My home is just a few miles away, so I dashed over to get a
CD player and some music I knew Dad enjoyed.I also brought a Presbyterian hymnal, some clothes and
toiletries so we could make ourselves comfortable for however long we would
need to be by his side.I also
grabbed two lamps to give us respite from the stark glare of fluorescent
lighting.

The gentleman who had been Dad’s roommate for the previous
week was discharged earlier that day, and the staff told us we could use the
extra bed.We pulled it over next
to my father’s and took turns lying next to him, holding his hand, patting his
arm, and gently reassuring him that it was going to be OK.“We’re here to help you step over to
the other side, Dad.”

One album we played was a collection of hymns sung by Lynda
Poston-Smith entitled Steal Away Home:
Songs of Hope and Comfort.This had been a favorite of my Mother’s,
not only for the eclectic selections, but also because their voices were nearly
identical.Mom had operatic skill
in her beautiful soprano, and the blend of her singing along while she did
housework would’ve caused anyone to think she was Lynda’s sister.

“This sounds just like Mom, doesn’t it Dad?” I asked.His eyebrows raised up and down as his
lips moved silently, trying to sing along.“She’s waiting for you, Dad.Mom is calling you home.”His grip grew strong around my hand.

You were dreaming on a park bench

‘Bout a broad
highway somewhere

When the music from the carillon

Seemed to hurl your heart out there

Past the scientific darkness

Past the fireflies that float

To an angel bending down

To wrap you in her warmest coat

That night, the staff welcomed Joyce to sleep in the empty
room next door.I cozied-beside
Dad, our shoulders touching, caressing his arm, putting my hand on his chest
when his breathing became agitated. “You’re doing fine, Dad.You can make this trip at your own
pace,” I whispered.

I had gotten him some of his beloved A&W Root Beer, and
would dip swabs of the sweet brew to wet his lips every half hour or so.Sometimes he would even swallow.“Nothing like a cold root beer, huh,
Dad?”I would ask, and sometimes
his eyebrows would rise in response.

As the hours melted one into another, a certain cadence took
over his air intake: a large inhale, a slight moan, and then a sustained
exhale. I began to wonder which one might be his last. I didn’t want to let him
go, but he had been longing to for months.At least a dozen times in that stretch he admitted that he
wanted to go to heaven.“I’ve had
enough, Mark, and I don’t think I’ve got anything left to give anyway,” he
lamented.

Why is it that so often as life winds down there is such a
grayness to it?

When half-light started seeping through the window at sunup,
the morphine must’ve been pretty well integrated into his system, and his
breathing had become even-paced with no external signs of pain.Vital signs were fairly stable.So, once Joyce was alert and in the
room, I drove home to eat and shower.

While I was gone, she pulled out the hymnal and began
singing to Dad while sitting with him hand-in-hand.On certain numbers he would twitch in recognition. She went
cover to cover, singing every one that she remembered, like “Children of the
Heavenly Father,”“Great Is Thy
Faithfulness,” “Be Thou My Vision ,” “Like A River Glorious,” “All Hail the
Power of Jesus’ Name,” “To God Be The Glory,” “Breathe On Me, Oh Breath of
God,” “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today,” “Fairest Lord Jesus,” “For the Beauty
of the Earth,” “Great Is They Faithfulness,” “Holy, Holy, Holy,” “How Great
Thou Art,” “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee,” “Open My Eyes That I May See,”
“What a Friend We Have In Jesus,” “When I Survey The Wondrous Cross,” “Praise
Ye The Lord,”and “Guide Me, Oh
Thou Great Jehovah” were the ones she noted he acknowledged the most. On some,
tears even trickled down his cheeks.

Knowing my Sister’s ambivalence about much of evangelicalism
over the past several decades, this was stirring a reconnection of memories
growing up in a pastor’s home.The
ridiculous pressures, expectations of the fundamental lifestyle, and
disappointments over decisions made (or not made) seemed to be of no
consequence during this final bond between a daughter and father. These
time-tested melodies and hope-filled psalms swept over the both of them.“Blessed Assurance,” indeed.

Angels,
descending, bring from above

Echoes
of mercy, whispers of love

Watching
and waiting, looking above

Filled
with His goodness, lost in His love

(“Blessed Assurance,” Fanny Crosby, 1873)

Upon my return, Joyce took a break to have breakfast and shop for
some clothes (she had only packed for a two day business trip).In my next few hours with Dad, I read
him some of the newspaper, prayed with him, and recited some portions of
scripture.

When Dad seemed to be in a rapt sleep, I pulled out Kathleen
Norris’ Acedia and Me, which I had
been working through for the past month.This book is a telling of her discovery and contemplation of acedia, one
of the original “Seven Deadly Sins” that over the past five hundred years has
been referred to more as “sloth.” Even in the past century it has more often
been looked at as “depression.”Norris ties this in with the long struggle of her husband’s declining
health over several decades.The chapter I opened that afternoon was entitled “And to the End
Arriving.” I knew that she was going to eventually talk of his passing, but had
no idea it would be nearly a hundred pages before the close of the
dissertation.As I read of her
tending to him on his deathbed, barely holding on to life, I found myself
eminently encouraged.I sensed the
Spirit once again interlacing threads of circumstance to show me tender
concern.

Kathleen recounted her husband David’s favorite prayer, which
was the final utterance of the compline (from the Latin “complete,” the service
used to bring each day to a close): “May the Lord grant us a peaceful night,
and a perfect end.”I nodded in
affirmation that, in God’s mercy, the same would be true for Dad in His timing.

Throughout that afternoon, we pondered moving him to my house
for final hospice.His breathing
seemed measured and steady—as if he had found a comfortable pace that might
sustain him for a while.In and
out went the rhythm of life.The
expansion of his chest welling with hope, to be followed—as is the nature of
all things—with the subsequent sigh of resignation.To be repeated over, and over, and over.

My sister and I took turns sitting with Dad, while the other
would make calls to loved ones. We imparted courage to him and each other as he
made each symbolic step.His vital
signs were beginning to fluctuate.His lungs started to gather fluid, and we heard some occasional deep
gurgling sounds in his throat.

In some ways it was eerily similar to six years before when Mom
had a massive stroke during her recovery from stout stomach cancer
treatments.They were returning to
Pittsburgh from a family reunion in Kentucky when she collapsed at a freeway
exit convenience store in southeast Ohio.As soon as Dad called us, Joyce and I raced to the hospital she had been
taken to in Dayton; each of us covering the 300 miles from Indiana and
Tennessee, respectively, in blazing times.

We had friends from Pennsylvania overnight Mom’s favorite CD’s,
and bought a unit to play them for her while we took turns holding her hand and
speaking with her.After several
tests, the doctors concluded that if she were ever to regain awareness that she
would most likely have very limited quality of life.Both Mom and Dad had drawn up extremely clear living wills
that left no doubt regarding their choice in a situation like this: do not
attempt to maintain.We read it
and re-read it carefully, met with the physicians, pondered with the hospital
chaplain, prayed separately and communally. After two days, we unanimously
decided, with the staff’s blessing and cooperation, that we would take Mom off
life support.She had been sending
us cues, too: her blood pressure was wildly erratic, her body temperature was
soaring to 104 degrees, her heart rate was all over the chart.

She was telling us to let her go.

Even though it was a non-religious hospital, nearly every nurse
and doctor who had been helping in those three days came into her room when the
time arrived.We all held hands
and prayed around Mom.Earlier
that day, the resident chaplain, Rev. Robinson, had heard us playing Lynda
Poston-Smith’s version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” After he and Dad prayed
for God’s presence and blessing as all life-sustaining machinery and fluids
were shut down, the clergyman asked that we play it again and sing in unison.

Our voices were quivering, but determined, as we sang…

Swing
low, sweet chariot

Comin'
for to carry me home

Swing
low, sweet chariot

Comin'
for to carry me home

I think the
three of us had the same image of Mom singing this in front of thousands at numerous
church services where she would give her passionate rendition of her favorite
spiritual.

I
looked over Jordan

And
what did I see?

Comin'
for to carry me home

A
band of angels comin' after me

Comin'
for to carry me home

Dad, who we
did not often see cry, was sobbing pretty hard, and I put my arm around him…

Sometimes
I'm up, and sometimes I'm down

Coming
for to carry me home

But
still my soul feels heavenly bound

Coming
for to carry me home

We had all
figured with Dad’s prostate cancer surgery thirteen years before, and triple
by-pass just six years later, that he would be the first to go.Now it was beginning to sink in that
Mom was crossing over first…

If you get to heaven before I
do

Comin' for to carry me home

Tell all my friends I'm a-comin'
too

Comin' for to carry me home

We watched the life signs slowly ebb, the color draining from
her face.Joyce, Dad, and I all
got on our knees next to Mom as the heartbeat grew fainter and fainter.

And she was
gone…in just four minutes.

Everyone quietly left us by her body.It was so somber, but about as holy as you could want.We were humbled to be there.

So, here were the three of us again, but now Dad was in the
reclining and declining position.Joyce and I on either side of him late on a sun-drenched spring
afternoon in Nashville.Dad’s
breathing was the only sound in the room…unless Joyce and I were quietly
chatting as we pondered his life

I contemplated what he had imparted to me—imprinted into my
life with his guiding hand of love, discipline, and direction.Each sustained breath seemed to bring
another lesson to mind, whether it was how to laugh, accepting those in need,
striving for relevance to people’s lives, loyalty, standing up for what was
right, and care for others above yourself.One bit of wisdom that grew more precious with age was
admitting we would never really know all the answers in this life.

As
a minister, Dad allowed people to ask hard questions about faith, or a lack
thereof.His permitting people to
be open with their doubts made them more comfortable in hearing possible
solutions through scripture and his personal experiences.And he knew that these answers often
did not come quickly, but needed patience for all involved.

I
remember him saying sometimes “there are lots of good preachers out there…but
there never seem to be enough pastors.”Now Joyce and I were in that place where Dad had consoled so many with
his amazing bedside manner for those in the hospital. He was a great listener
to those who were grieving, knowing when to pray and when to be silent. We were doing our best to reflect
that back to him as he lay there.Things had grown peaceful in the midst of the sadness and reflection as
the afternoon progressed.The
intake and outflow had now become pretty unencumbered and even.

In…out…pause.In…out…pause.And then, without any warning whatsoever, he stopped.No trauma, no struggle, no
difficulty.He breathed his last
and slipped away.

Joyce
and I looked at each other, tears welling.“Good for you, Dad.You did good,” she whispered.

There’s a healing touch to find you

On that broad highway somewhere

To lift you high

As music flying

Through the angel’s hair

It
dawned on me that we had been given a very rare gift in this modern age: to be
by the side of each of our parents when they passed, and to see them move so
gently from one realm to the next.

My
brother Jim was yanked away from us without warning.I could never say goodbyes to Ernie, or John, or Mike back
in my college days, nor many others who have departed subsequently.But for the two people who gave me life
in the first place--the two who loved me most—I was allowed the honor of seeing
them through.

As
I held his hand that final time, still warm but beginning to cool as his spirit
left him—I remember doing the same with him five years after Mom had died when
he was recovering from his broken arm. He was feeling quite low.

“Sometimes
I wonder what all of my life meant,” he confessed.“The toil of my hands…will there be any lasting impact?”
staring out at a powdered dusk, he paused for a while. “It used to sadden
Marilyn and me that none of you brought grandchildren into our lives.But last night the Lord reminded me of
what you and Joyce had done—a lot which wouldn’t have happened if you had
families.Look at the university Joyce
is helping start in Africa.That
source of higher education is going to change Angola for generations to
come.And then there are those
150,000 sponsors you have found for needy kids through radio and concert events
with Compassion in these decades you’ve worked with them.”

“You
taught and modeled so well, Dad.” I reminded him. “In so many ways you showed
us how to serve—not just in words, but also actions.”

“Yeah,”
he replied, brightening up.“When
you put your hand to the plow, you don’t always realize what the harvest will
look like until you go through too much rain, too much heat, locusts, beetles,
fire ants, and long stretches of wondering if it will amount to much.”

We’ve
been flooded with hundreds of testimonies of the impact of Mom and Dad since
his passing.At his memorial
service in Pittsburgh as well as via cards, e-mails, and phone calls we have
heard from some of the thousands that were touched over those sixty-plus years
of service at eight congregations they served.

About Me

Described as a renaissance man, Mark A. Hollingsworth considers himself a citizen of the world. He has traveled to forty-nine countries as a manager of rock bands and an advocate for the poor in the developing world. He has been published in two dozen magazines ranging from Billboard to National Lampoon, and his blog has had over 50,000 readers in the past four years. Mark resides in Nashville, Tennessee.
Mark's Favorite Blogs:
http://notjusttalk.tumblr.com/